


Time and Tide and 'One Thousand and One Arabian Nights'

by dorkery



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Difference, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Islam, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:31:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkery/pseuds/dorkery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he did was tell some stories and teach her how to read. He never expected it to breed a new civilisation.</p><p>Turkey makes some new friends in an unexpected corner of Southeast Asia. OCs Malaya and Sumatra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Tide and 'One Thousand and One Arabian Nights'

**Author's Note:**

> Filled for the Hetalia Kink meme. Original request: [Nations and OC!Nations interacting](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15068.html?thread=40015068#t40015068). I love Turkey and he was the Ottoman Empire, and the Ottoman Empire had Mecca, so why the hell not? This story is about the spread of Islam to the Hindu-Buddhist region of the Malay Archipelago in the 1300-1400s. There are history notes after the story.

“Land ahoy!”

The salt in the air and the sun shining down was unyielding, the strongest he had come across for perhaps decades. His robes were heavy, thick with moisture, heated and stuffy. He hadn’t expected the humidity. He would have to do something about clothes once they docked.

“Do you see it, my lord? Just beyond!”

He did see it. In the distance, but growing closer, was a golden sprout of a city, a sliver amongst the dense greenery of the land. He had expected small fishing villages, some decrepit wooden houses, men in loincloth and spears. What he had not expected was an entire civilisation, a golden city teeming with life and an assortment of different people from different lands. The shouting from the sea did not phase him – docks were always lively – but what did were the men, half on small sampans and half submerged in the deep, bottomless sea, all with ropes to help lead their vessel to shore. Peculiar, but all at once, intriguing.

“Sufyan,” Turkey called. “I want to explore this little paradise of yours. Take care of things here.”

The man’s cheery agreement did not go unheard as the ramps were thrown from the deck to the dock. Turkey stepped gingerly onto land, feeling a slight tingle run through him as he made peace with the ocean. They had been sailing for years now. To a nation, years are nothing, but Turkey was more than glad to get off the sea. The winds had become increasingly turbulent.

Spice. He could smell it in the air.

The streets bustled with people buying and selling wares; fish, vegetables, jewellery, crockery. Most importantly, he could smell the spice. Cardamom. Ginger. Turmeric. The Far East had been fabled, filled with fantastic stories of gold and cassia. He had seen India, and India was a beautiful land. Now, he found that there was even more, further beyond. It was as much a port as he had ever seen, and as he caught the eye of a merchant, though the merchant did so hesitantly at the sight of Turkey’s totally covered face, he smiled and waved. Turkey waved back.

It certainly wasn’t a nasty neighbourhood.

Turkey spent the entire day exploring the country, talking with the locals in their peculiar creole. Sometimes, he ran into Arab traders and they would delightedly chat with him about the region. He liked what he saw. He told Sufyan as much when he returned to the ship to be led to the quarters that had been arranged for him in this new country. Some local refreshments and a round of Turkish tea put him to bed in a very good humour, and it prepared him for a full day of assimilation.

He spent a few hours in the markets, getting a feel of the mannerisms of the locals, learning the trade and the culture. It was always fun to hang out some place new, no politics involved.

A little girl bumped into him.

“Whoops,” he said, picking her up by the shoulders and helping her to her feet. She was dressed like the locals and had large eyes, hair flowing freely around her neck. She was probably no older than five. That was the first thing he noticed about her. The second thing was that she hadn’t run away. She looked up at him curiously and began to speak.

He didn’t understand a word she said.

It sounded like Sanskrit, and although he knew enough from the books he had read to understand some simple conversations, she was speaking the local creole and it perplexed him to no end. He glared lightly as he struggled with some mime to express his feelings, and it only caused the girl to give him an odd look. On the cusp of defeat, she suddenly spoke absolutely clearly in a language he _definitely_ understood.

“It’s not a good idea to walk around in these,” she said, tugging at the hem of his robes, accent stilted. “They’re too thick. You’ll get a heat stroke.”

“That’s rather presumptuous of you,” he replied in the same tongue, arching a brow that was hidden by his mask. “Who’s to say I’m uncomfortable in these?”

“If it’s your first time here, you really should wear something more region-appropriate. I can show you the nicer merchants, if you’d like. I’ll even ask them to give you a discount,” she said as-a-matter-of-fact. Suddenly, she looked up at him again with that glint of wonder in her eyes. “Are you also an Arab, like some of the new men here?”

“Even better. I’m Turkey,” he grinned. “What’s your name?”

“Dewi Radeng Wijaya, but people call me Dewi.”

“No, no,” he shook his head, almost sighing. “Your real name.”

She looked up at him, confused.

“My… real name?”

He nodded. Scanning around briefly, he leaned in closer to whisper, “For one thing, we’re not exactly speaking your language, are we?”

Realisation dawned. She shook her head slowly, a hesitant expression on her face.

“Don’t worry,” Turkey coaxed kindly. “I’m the same as you.” He pointed to himself. “Turkey.”

Her eyes widened and she promptly blushed.

“Oh! I’m sorry! My name is Malaya.”

“That’s a very pretty name,” he said. She giggled shyly.

She was pretty cute. He gave her that much.

He didn’t know exactly how it happened, but several hours later, he was sitting on a small gazebo that overlooked a quiet part of the sea, nursing a cup of tea as he told the small nation _Hikayat al-Sabiyya al-Muqtula_ , The Tale of the Murdered Young Woman. A bit heavy for a five-year-old, he thought, but she was such a good audience that he had gotten a little carried away. The way she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp when he told her, with every ounce of pomp and circumstance, that the hero Ja’afar would be executed made him grin widely. It had been a while since he had a kid who actually acted like a _kid_ in the general vicinity. It was a nice change.

“And so, Ja’afar pleads for Harun to forgive the slave, Rayhan, and in exchange tells the Tale of Nur al-Din Ali and His Son Badr al-Din Hasan.”

“Tell me that one next!”

Turkey laughed. “You’re going to end up sleeping here, you know. It’s called A Thousand and One Arabian Nights for a reason.”

“Night…” Malaya peered across the sea and jumped to her feet, startled. “Oh! It’ll be sunset soon! I have to go back before the demons come out!”

“Demons?” Turkey asked, arching a brow.

“We’re surrounded by spirits in this land,” she explained nervously, peeking at the streets. “And sunset is when they’re at their strongest.”

“I think your parents would be scarier than demons when you’re home late,” Turkey chuckled.

Malaya gave him a quizzical look. His smile immediately slipped away.

“You’re all alone?”

“Um… I have two brothers… But I don’t see them very often. They live across the straits,” she pointed to the sea. Turkey glanced at the horizon and then back to Malaya.

“You’ve been free all this while?”

She nodded.

Turkey sighed. She wasn’t going to be for very long if the rumblings in the Old World were anything to go by. Nevertheless, she didn’t know that, neither did she need to. He smiled at her and patted her shoulder.

“So, I believe someone has to run home before the demons get stronger.”

“Oh, right! Bye, Turkey! I can come see you tomorrow, right? You’ll tell me the next story, won’t you?”

“Sure, sure.”

\---

The next day found him at the beach, wading waist deep in the ocean in a panic when Malaya hadn’t resurfaced for a good twenty minutes. He called her human name, her real name, a mix of them in his confusion before he promptly tossed all his headgear to the shore and dove into the water. He was a seafarer, of course. The water was warm and the salt stung his eyes, but it was nothing too terrible.

Until he realised the very, very steep drop in the ocean floor.

It was like a cliff. One minute he could touch the seabed with his feet, suddenly he was sinking into an underwater trench that was so deep that it faded from the pristine blue-green into an unending darkness. The currents were sudden, cold, powerful and he found himself battling it as hard as possible. The silvery glint of scales of a very large fish _may_ have caught his attention briefly, but he paid it no heed. Nations didn’t die easily, no, but drowning in the Far East would be damned embarrassing to explain to the people of the Ottoman Empire when he was aground again. If he didn’t get chewed to pieces.

He was losing air. His vision was starting to fade slowly.

This really sucked.

Two pairs of arms grabbed him by the armpits and _pulled_.

Too soon, he broke the surface, gasping for breath as his throat burned with sea water. A strong hand thumped his back and helped him cough it out, something he did gratefully, and as he tiredly floated, the pair of swimmers slowly kicked their way back to shore.

“I thought you’d be a good swimmer,” Malaya said with a slight frown, gently rubbing Turkey’s back as she sat by him. He shot her a poisonous glare as he attempted to wring the water out of his robes.

“You could have _died_ , you fool,” he growled. Now that his face was unmasked, the full force of his severe expression and darkened eyes affected her immensely. She started and immediately looked upset.

“I-I didn’t think you’d come in after me.”

“Are you stupid?” Turkey shouted angrily. “You mean no one jumps in after you’re underwater for _ten minutes_? Don’t your people care if you drown and die!”

She was trembling under his glare, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. The other man who had helped her bring Turkey to shore sat down beside her, wrapped an arm around her and squeezed her gently, trying to comfort her, stroking the wet hair out of her face. He frowned lightly at Turkey.

“You come to the Straits of Malacca and do not know of the _orang laut_?”

Turkey’s eyes narrowed lightly, scowl still in place.

“ _Orang laut_. Sea people. We are the ones who guide the ships into the harbour.”

“And?”

The man raised both his eyebrows.

“We know these waters, breathe them. We speak to the fish. She could have been underwater for an hour and I would not worry.”

Turkey’s scowl was unmoving, but as he shifted his gaze from Malaya to the man, he seemed to _want_ to be convinced even if he sounded utterly disbelieving.

“You’re saying both of you can talk to fish.”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“And you can hold your breath underwater for an hour.”

“She can only go that long, for now. Soon she will be able to go for even longer.” He turned to Malaya, smiled at her and squeezed her again. “Isn’t that right, Dewi?”

Malaya’s response was to burst into tears as she buried her face in the man’s side.

Turkey felt only a little bad. But that was only because he hated dealing with crybabies.

“All right. All right. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know. I’m not angry with you anymore, just majorly pissed off. Stop _crying_ , for god’s sake.”

The attempt to calm her down went on for a while until Malaya finally wiped her tears away and was led by the hand to the baths by one of the local women who had been summoned. Once they were out of earshot, Turkey began to strip himself of his robes.

“So, who the hell are you?” Turkey asked gruffly.

“Sumatra,” the man frowned. “I somehow expected better manners from you considering how much my sister talked about you, but you did try to save her life. I will overlook it.”

“Yeah, real nice of you,” Turkey was still a little irate, but most of it was due to the fact that he was drenched and not at all because he had made a little nation cry.

“She’s been alone for quite some time, so she has become very independent,” Sumatra said serenely. “However, she is still a very small child. She tries very hard to please the people around her, so she’s usually well behaved. I don’t think she’s been scolded quite so harshly for a decade or so.”

“I get it,” Turkey snapped at Sumatra. “I’ll go pay her a visit. Happy?”

“A little,” Sumatra raised his eyebrows again. “But if you’re going to raise your voice at her without good reason, I’m afraid I might have to ask you to refrain.”

“ _Fine_.”

“And bring her some sweets.”

“Just- Are you done yet?”

“You Arabs are so peculiar,” Sumatra shook his head. “Has the desert made you so hot-headed?”

“You people take your goddamn time,” Turkey replied with a huff, not bothering to correct him. “Like you have all the time in the world.”

Sumatra shrugged, smiling in that serene way of his. “We like to take it easy. You should, too.”

Turkey snorted. “I’ll think about.”

\---

When all was said and done, Turkey realised that it was rather easy to manage children. The well behaved ones, at least. Sweets and sweet talk had done the trick, and after she tentatively offered him some lunch that he politely accepted (and found was rather good fare, a sentiment he voiced to her shy pleasure), a story promptly won her over.

Of course, it had taken him two days to cool his temper and actually locate her home, but never let it be said that Turkey was not a gentleman. Sure, guilt had gnawed at him during those two days, mostly with thanks to Sufyan’s barbed comments about chasing away his ‘young lover’, but her enraptured gaze as she hung onto his every single word in his storytelling easily washed it away.

So life returned to normal. He wasn’t particularly sure why she was so attached to him, but he didn’t mind it too much (though he wondered when he had begun holding her hand as she walked them through the streets of Malacca). She preferred visiting him because he was in the more interesting part of town, so she said, and he allowed her to sate any curiosity she may have had regarding the things he had brought from home.

“What’s this?” Malaya asked, looking up at Turkey who had been busy smoking some tobacco from his pipe as he sat barefoot at the entrance of the house in which he had taken residence. He glanced down at the scroll in her hands.

“That’s another story from Arabia. I can leave some with you if you’d like, so you can read them on your own.”

She ran her fingers along the script, staring at them momentarily before she slowly returned her gaze to Turkey, a little trepidation in her expression.

“I… I um, can’t read this.”

Turkey sighed softly, tucking his feet in and seating himself on the floor across from Malaya, reaching for an empty roll of parchment and a brush. He took a slow drag from his pipe before gently placing it on a nearby tray. He dipped his brush in a small bottle of ink.

“You can learn,” he said easily. “You may as well, really.”

_Alif, ba, ta, tha, jim, ha, kho, dhal, zal, ro, zai…_

\---

“Turkey, what does this word mean?”

“It’s _ikhlas_. It means… ‘sincere’. ‘Honest’. _Afahemti_?”

“ _Faham!_ ”

He sighed. Close enough.

\---

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Turkey said, in the local creole.

A smiling face poked in, hair tied back neatly with a long shawl covering her head. Turkey gestured for her to enter, setting aside the book he had been reading. His attendant disappeared and promptly reappeared with something to drink. The girl chirped her thanks and took a polite sip before setting it down again. She took her shawl off and folded it neatly.

“You’ve been missing for a while,” Turkey began conversationally.

“I was in Majapahit,” she said with a wide grin. “My brother Java wanted me to meet his new raja, Hayam Wuruk.”

He quirked a brow at her. “And I can imagine the good raja was a handsome one.”

“He really is,” she said with a dreamy sigh. Turkey shook his head and laughed. He’d heard of the 16-year-old raja from the other merchants. A ten year difference wasn’t so bad once Malaya hit puberty, but he could just as easily see it _not_ happening for obvious reasons. On the other hand…

“So, I see your sultan’s decided to finally include you in his political visits.”

“Oh yes,” she said with that bright smile. “Ever since he converted to Islam, he’s been much more aware of me. I think it’s because he feels like I’m an orphan.”

Turkey snorted, picking up his book again as he lay down on his side and flicked back to his page. “Is he planning on adopting you, then?”

“He offered me a room in the palace,” she hummed, leaning over to steal a piece of baklava from the plate behind Turkey’s head. He smacked her arm lightly with his book, but she didn’t falter. It was in her mouth only moments later.

“That’s nice. You won’t be living alone on the edge of the village anymore," he said as he eyed her with disapproval - something she had no problem ignoring.

“Well, I told him I wanted to stay near the ocean anyway, for some peace and quiet, so he had a small house built just outside the palace for me. But he told me that I could go in and out of the palace freely.”

“Someone’s being spoilt,” Turkey snorted again and Malaya pouted at him. As revenge, she launched herself on him and he felt his ribs crush under her weight, wind knocked out of him completely. He choked lightly, hoping his vital regions were still intact. However, Malaya had stopped flailing and was peering up at him, face half buried in his robes.

“…Turkey?”

“What is it?”

“The sultan said that I’m Muslim now, so I should get a Muslim human name.”

Turkey let out a heavy breath, patting her head with his free hand.

“Don’t you want one?”

“Well… I was… hoping you could give it to me.”

“Me?”

“I learnt all of it from you, didn’t I?”

“I suppose,” Turkey cupped his chin with a finger, thinking on it. “Nur is always a good name.”

“Yes, but Nur _what_?”

“Hold on,” Turkey rolled his eyes, pinching her nose briefly. “Don’t rush me. This is important.”

Malaya nodded obediently into his robes and waited.

After a minute or so, Turkey finally made a decision.

“Layla,” he said resolutely. “Nur Layla.”

Malaya smiled faintly. It was a very pretty-sounding name and she was happy he thought that it would suit her.

“Turkey, what’s _your_ human name?”

“Mine? Sadiq Adnan. Why?”

“Oh, well…” She blushed lightly. “I was thinking that… m-maybe I could take your name as my _nasab_.”

He gave her a look and that just made her blush harder.

“Really?” He deadpanned. “Nur Layla bint Sadiq? You _do_ know that your brothers and I are the same age, right?”

“I’m not saying you’re old or anything,” she squeaked hurriedly, on her knees and shaking both her hands in hopes that it would dispel the very idea. “I just thought… well… you’re going to leave, aren’t you? And… you won’t be back for a very long time? So I thought that, at the very least, I could have your name even if you won’t be around anymore.”

“Just say it,” Turkey groaned, slapping a hand over his face. “I act like an old man. I won’t be offended. I’ve got another kid back in Turkey too, though he never shuts up.”

Malaya was still bright red, but she was still able to say, “You’re my favourite, though.”

Turkey groaned again. He hated kids. _Hated_ them. He especially hated how embarrassing they were. They were worse when they were well behaved. He missed Greece. At the very least he could kick the kid’s ass when he was being a rude shit.

“Okay, fine. Nur Layla Sadiq. That’s your name. Now let’s forget this conversation ever happened and never speak of it again.”

Malaya smiled.

“Sadiq Adnan’s a very cute name.”

“Manly. _Manly_. What did I just say, Malaya?”

She giggled, getting off him. “Sorry.”

Turkey grudgingly accepted the apology even though the look on her face said that she wasn’t sorry at all.

\---

Malaya wasn’t her usual cheerful self as she sent Turkey off for the remainder of his trip to China, but she still had a smile on her face. A monsoon season was a monsoon season after all, and now that it was over, he had to go. It was a pleasant surprise to see Sumatra with her, extending a warm invitation the next time he came around. He knew he would likely never return to the country for the next century or so. Too far. Much too far. And there were wars he’d be getting into once he returned. But he promised books and letters with every other vessel that departed for the Far East and he thought that it was good enough.

It was weird, he thought, how he didn’t even need to lift a finger and this kid decides that she wants to be like him. A kid he’d never see again was the one who liked him enough to want _his name_ , and the kid under his own roof wanted to kick him in the balls given any opportunity. Absence and the heart growing fonder or something. He only wished these kinds of 'conquests' were more common.

At least he had the one kid, even if he’d never see her again, even if she was on the complete other end of the world. At least she was happy.

The Ottoman Empire was just that good.

Eat that, Old World.

**Author's Note:**

>   * In Arabic, afham means 'understand'. Malay adapted it into "faham".   [The Malay language is largely made up of Arabic, Persian, Portuguese, Dutch and English loan words](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Malay_loanwords). However, Arabic makes up the base of the modern reincarnation of the language, with many words used to today verbatim in terms of the pronunciation and meaning (e.g. Ahad, falsafah, huruf, abjad - Sunday, philosophy, letter (in an alphabet such as A, B, C etc.), alphabet). Old Malay was largely based on Sanskrit, and Classical Malay which succeeded it (see: the story you've just read) was nearly completely overhauled by Arabic influences, including a slightly revised Arabic script called Jawi (to account for sounds in the Malay language that do not occur in Arabic, like the "ch" and "p" sounds). To this day, the Arabic script is still used in religious textbooks as well for the representation of Classical Malay. Latin script, the current official script of Malay, was introduced by the Dutch in the mid-1600s. Malay continued to evolve and absorb new words even during more contemporary periods, such as under British rule which occurred in the late 1800s to mid-1900s. Modern Malay was finalised in the 60's, though as with any language, grammatical rules constantly evolve with the years. The Arabic culture is pretty important in Southeast Asia, particularly in present day Indonesia and Malaysia. This region is one of the few regions that embraced Islam without being forced to through war or occupation. The Straits of Malacca, in the middle of the Spice Route, experienced heavy traffic as it was a rest stop on the way to/from China/India, and sheltered ships during the monsoon season, which lasts about three months or so. As an entropôt, traders were welcome and the people were pretty chilled out, plus Asian customs were more or less attune with Islamic principles. Arab traders liked what they saw and a great deal of them settled down in Malaya. Conversions occurred largely through marriages, and soon, nearly the entire region had become Muslim. Furthermore, due to its distance and lack of direct association with the Arabic nations, Southeast Asia's culture more or less developed the way the locals decided, so it is somewhat removed from what is most commonly associated with Arab culture, particularly with Southeast Asians retaining a much more lax behaviour or disposition.  So! Many Arab traders hung out in Malacca and the Hindu king Parameswara (originally a prince from the Srivijayan Kingdom in Sumatra) eventually converted to Islam. Malaya converted pretty quickly, but the Indonesian islands, being rather large, took much longer. Until Malacca's fall to Portuguese colonialists, it was a hub for Muslim merchants. However, Portuguese = Christian, so they detoured to Aceh in Sumatra.
>   
> 
>   * 'bint' or 'binti' means 'daughter of'. The male equivalent would be 'bin' or 'ibni'.
>   
> 
>   * Arabic/Muslim names are patronymic. You can skip the next point if you know what this means.
>   
> 
>   * Nasab is basically a 'surname' (a patronym). In Arab/Muslim culture, you don't have a middle name or a last name (unless you have a dynasty name, like al-Sagoff, but that is added to your nasab). You have your given name, and your surname, and your given name can be made up of more than one name, just like your surname. Why is that? Because your surname is your father's given name. When you're born, your father's name is your surname. When you die, you will be buried with your mother's name as your surname. So Nur Layla would be a given name and Sadiq would be a nasab, or surname. Also, when you adopt a child, you are not encouraged to change the child's nasab. Nasab is culturally important in preserving one's heritage or lineage. In olden times, a person would ordinarily record 20 or so nasabs. When you refer to a Muslim/Arab, you usually use his/her given name (i.e. Miss Layla, or Miss Nur Layla, as opposed to Miss Sadiq in which you would be calling her father a woman).
>   
> 
>   * As for that line about orphans. In Islam, orphans are really important and all Muslims have to devote part of their wealth to taking care of them. One of the tenets of the faith is to care for the poor and orphans.
>   
> 
>   * As an addendum, if any of you guys are interested in watching a nice historical movie about the origins of Islam, a _really_ good one is from 1976, starring Anthony Quinn, called [The Message](http://stagevu.com/video/yomuhvvkprkg). It watches exactly like a history film, without preaching to the audience. Plus, the costumes make me gleeful.  May I also say that some of the actors are insane hot.
>   
> 



End file.
